


Midnight Hues

by AtomicMint



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Domestic Fluff, Everyone lives, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Post-First War with Voldemort, Regulus Black Needs a Hug, Regulus is too freakin hard on himself, Two saps in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicMint/pseuds/AtomicMint
Summary: [Regulus knows - probably better than anyone - the scars that the war left on them both. Simple things, like knowing each other's location, were important back then and priorities like that don't just magically disappear. He doesn't think he wants them to magically disappear.Can't bear the thought of a life without Barty at his side.]It's in the moments between day and night, when the moon is high in the sky and midnight seeps through his window, that Regulus allows himself to unravel. Maybe it's a pity (maybe it isn't) that Barty won't let him face that alone.
Relationships: Regulus Black/Bartemius Crouch Jr.
Kudos: 33





	Midnight Hues

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: depression, PTSD, disassociation, past abuse (not really touched upon but by golly it's there), allusions to self harm/blame.
> 
> I just want them to be happy - why do I do this :(

(The room is dark.)

Their room is an empty canvas, dyed dark by midnight blue that seep in through the partly drawn curtain. Barty’s insistence, of course.

Regulus hates it when sunlight filters through the flimsy barricade of cotton. Elegant waves dancing across their walls. Hates the way it inches across his skin and demands that he wake to face the day. Hates the way Barty can just jump up every morning with a grin on his face and a spring in his step. Loud and obnoxious and stupidly cheerful. A medley of all the things Regulus should loathe the most.

(Regulus hates a lot of things – too many things to count.

Barty has never been one of them.)

But this time it's the moon’s insisting that has Regulus pushing back the duvet and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The moon's beckoning and cruel taunts that have him bracing his hands against the mattress. There's a second of thought - but not really, thinking hurts - before he moves them to his knees and then his lap. He doesn’t bother to look back over his shoulder at Barty – knows that the other man will still be sound asleep. With his hair a tangled mess and his pajamas rumpled and his snores muffled into the pillow he’s likely drooling into.

Inelegant.

Perfect.

It has to be the moon’s call – the ridiculous glow that insists on sneaking through their window on nights like this – merlin, there are so many nights like this - that woke him. Because anything else would suggest that… no.

It’s the moon.

(The room is dark and Regulus is awake and aware and lost.)

He inhales, slowly, through his nose. Eyes clenched shut as he forces himself to breathe. His fingers twitch before he forces them still, blinking down at them like they’re some foreign object attached to his being. He’s not sure that they’re not. Just in case, he curls each finger inwards, tip to his palms, until they’re clenched into loose fists.

Releases them; starts again.

Over and over again – the repetition of a hymn. Or, his lips twitches once and then fall still, a spell. A hex. A curse.

The mattress moves beneath him. The rolling of a ship on tumultuous waves, condensed down into the shifting duvet rustling beside him and the creaking of the bedframe. Barty's hand reaches out to hover by his shoulder. Only making contact when Regulus nods his head down, once. In short and sharp permission. Even that is exhausting, and after he moves Regulus feels his head continue to drop, chin dropping to his chest with a low thump. Feels the collision, small as it was, echo through his body. Every movement is loud in the midnight hours.

He wants to sleep but he's no allowed to sleep and he should sleep but it's _dark_ and mother always said - 

“You’re shaking.” Barty tells him, slow and gentle. Voice rough and deep as sleep digs sensual fingers into the man’s vocal cords. It’s all Barty though, pure and simple, and maybe Regulus leans further into the warm touch on his shoulder. Maybe he doesn’t – he’s not sure anymore. 

The carpet is soft when he digs his toes into it and flexes them. Gooseflesh rising across his exposed skin as he suddenly realises quite how cold it is without the warmth of their covers. Something to tell Kreacher about, he thinks absently. And, oh. That's odd. Can he feel his heart beating against his chin? Or is that his blood pulsing through his throat? Bubbling and hot and warm. He misses warmth - he thinks he liked warmth. Barty is warm.

Clenches his fingers together into a fist; releases them.

“Regulus?” Barty shifts again, and this time it isn’t a simple hand to his shoulder. It’s an arm – lowly, ever so _excruciatingly_ slowly – rising to wrap around his chest. A searing band of heat pressed against his ribs. Regulus leans into the touch; wonders if there will be burns left behind when Barty moves. Wonders if he’ll even care.

He thinks he might crave them - marks, to prove something. He's not sure what. They're probably important though. 

The bed creaks and Regulus bows his head forward, blinking, when a weight is pressed to his skin. It's only when Barty exhales, breath sweeping across Regulus’ flesh, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, that he realises his lover is pressing his forehead to Regulus’ neck. Close enough that Regulus thinks he should be shivering - isn't he already shaking? – at the proximity.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing emerges. The chill of winter bleeding through his skin and into fragile bones. Crawling up his throat and covering his words in frost. Bitterly cold and frozen solid, there’s little he can do.

So, Regulus says nothing.

“It’s not like you to wake me up at two in the morning,” Barty says, which is true, Regulus concedes. Normally, once he's managed to gather some meagre level of control over his limbs, he heads down to the kitchen or the library. Curls up with a book and buries his head in the sand. He can't read, of course, but it's the thought that matters. The illusion that he's crafting together. Normally, there is no need to bring Barty into his messes. Barty’s been through enough already – most of it because of Regulus himself. Dealing with moments like this on his own… It's fine. _He's_ fine.

Even now – Regulus makes a half-hearted effort to dislodge the arm curled around his waist – it's suddenly all to much. Barty shouldn't bother with him when he's like this. Barty should go back to sleep. Barty shouldn't worry about him - he's not worth it.

Barty’s having none of it though, if anything, the man’s grip tightens. His forehead pressing deeper into Regulus neck, slipping slightly so it’s the side of his head instead, almost insistently.

Both of them know that if Regulus really wanted the arm gone – it would already _be_ gone.

Barty knows better than to try and hold him down when he doesn't want him to.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong – if I ask?”

Regulus eyes dip back down to his hands – fists – before he forces them down and open. Slowly, they might break if he moves to fast. Have they broken before? Presses long fingers into the mattress on either side of his hips. Like this, he thinks he sees what Barty meant. He is shaking. Trembling. Weak.

He should be used to this by now - why isn't he used to this by now?

It's like he's in the basement again, with the door slamming shut behind him and the floor cool beneath his fingers. He forces his eyes to remain open, suddenly filled with the urge to close them. Knows, somehow, that if he gives into that urge, soft sheets will fade into stone. There will be water dripping from the ceiling and the carpet beneath his toes will lose its' warmth. Barty will disappear, is e even here now? Is this another of Mother's - 

A hand, darker skinned that his own and calloused, inches around his body to grip at one of his limp hands. Threading their fingers together.

He shrugs.

“See, that right there is a maybe.” There’s gentle laughter in Barty’s voice when he speaks, and if it were anyone else – if he had the energy – Regulus would bristle. But it’s Barty. “Do you think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

Regulus blinks, tips his head to the side in absent thought, shrugs again. Feels his jaw shift, his teeth accidently catch on each other. Grinding together. It’s loud. So loud. He flinches, just a little bit, and inwardly curses himself.

Barty’s grip on his hand tightens. “And that’s a no.” He says, deep and soothing. Regulus settles. “That’s fine then, kitchen or library?”

He must move in some way, he’s not sure how, because Barty muffles a huff of laughter into his shirt. Pulling him back until he’s the one leaning against Barty. Pressed to the other man’s chest with his head cocooned by Barty’s collarbone. He slowly raises his eyes up; the angle is awkward but he’s still able to meet glittering hazel. This close there’s a whole myriad of colour trapped in his lover’s eyes – he’s not sure he could name them all. So, he doesn’t try.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you creeping out of bed once a week? You’re sneaky, Reg’, but not _that_ sneaky.”

Regulus doesn't shrug this time, he can't properly move with his body held to Barty's, and flexes his fingers instead. If they're clinging tighter to Barty afterwards - neither of them are going to comment on it.

"To be fair, you are fairly sneaky. I didn't actually clock on to it till - I don't know - two months ago? Maybe three." Barty shakes him gently, rocking them both from side to side, and Regulus feels his eyes flutter shut. He tries to catch at his lip with his canine, thinking that he should probably stay a bit focused. Just a little bit. "I never actually followed you, don't worry about that-" he wasn't worried, he has no need to be worried, "but I did ask Kreacher where you hid yourself away. Just in case."

Regulus hums, low in his throat, and settles once more. He hadn't even noticed when his shoulders tightened, so it's a shock to feel himself relax. He doesn't bother to ask what Barty means by _just in case_. He knows - probably better than anyone - the scars that the war left on them both. Simple things, like knowing each other's location, were important back then and priorities like that don't just magically disappear. He doesn't think he wants them to magically disappear. Can't bear the thought of a life without Barty at his side. 

They're going to be watching each others backs (they're going to be running) for the rest of their lives.

"So?" Barty's breath is still ever so hot against his ear, casually intimate, and something deep inside Regulus purrs at the continued closeness. "Where were you thinking? You don't have to speak."

Regulus thinks he might want blink, and so he tries. Belatedly realising that his eyes are still closed when he's met with midnight as he opens them. Rather than the familiar comforting pitch behind his closed lids. Somehow the room is softer than before, he tries not to think to much into it.

Untangling their fingers is an excruciating - for more reasons than one - process, but he manages it. Canine digging into his lip again as he slowly drags his finger against Barty's palm. Drawing out a rough L, all the while, fighting a fond smile as Barty trembles beneath him. The stupid sod has always been deathly ticklish, the slightest touch sometimes enough to send him into peals of bright laughter. It's almost funny to feel him shaking and puffing out long breaths. Trying to remain serious.

Sure enough, the other man's voice is choked with concealed humour when he continues. "Library it is then." 

And then he's moving, and Regulus is biting at his lip for an entirely different reason. Trying not to let out the instinctive whine that claws at his throat when the warm line at his back shifts and _leaves._ It's only for a second in the end, maybe not even that, and yet Regulus finds himself battling with a telltale, and unfortunately familiar, heat behind his eyes. It's pathetic really, to find himself in such a state at the mere thought of being left on his own. Weak, his mother would tell him, and weakness is not tolerated.

Barty says he's not allowed to think about things like that though, and Sirius and Remus always agree, so he must have a point. Even if there's always an ugly curl to Sirius' lip when he says it, and Remus' eyes always look impossible sad.

It's definitely all the moon's fault.

"Right," when Barty speaks again, he's crouched in front of regulus with his own sock clad toes digging into the carpet. He's always been odd like that. Singing in the shower and reading books with his tongue poking out and wearing socks to bed. Regulus has had year to get used to (grow fondness of) his lover's quirks. But every now and then, he catches himself blinking at some strange thing that Barty does - most of them almost like afterthought to the Ravenclaw. "You want me to help you, or are you up for the walk?"

Oh look, Regulus is able to shrug again, how quaint.

He does so, just to prove to himself that he can.

Barty looks ever so proud, taking it in stride as he begins to lean forward. Arms warm as they wrap around Regulus. Its awkward and it's stilted, but somehow Barty manages to maneuver him into a bridal carry. Regulus should be worried by how quickly he relaxes into the hold - how quickly his heart beat slows into a more regular ba-thump. In place of the hummingbird wing quiver he'd unconsciously fallen into. 

(Should be. Isn't. Maybe later he will be.)

It doesn't take long for them to travel to the library, Regulus' room has always been closest to it. One of the many reasons it was his childhood haven. But he finds his eyes slipping shut again. Lulled into a calm state by the gentle lull of Barty's walk. Ignoring the judgmental glares and tuts of his ancestors - he's had plenty of practice.

"Don't fall asleep on me now -" Says Barty, once their settled into the settee in their favourite nook. Surrounded by parchment and books and the sweet scent of wood polish. But he doesn't sound angry, or even a little bit annoyed. More amused than anything else. "Not after I dragged your heavy arse all the way here."

From somewhere deep inside, Regulus finds a smidgen of energy. Enough for him to wave a hand through the air. Weakly batting at Barty's chest. Neither of them says anything when he stops and just lets it sit there, over Barty's chest. Rising up and down to the beating of Barty's heart.

"Yeah, yeah, abuse your personal transport broomstick why don't you." There's laughter in Barty's voice again. "Heh, broomstick. Does that mean you ride-" Regulus cracks an eye open, managing a somewhat pathetic glare, for him at least, and Barty trails off. There’s still a shit eating grin on his face though, and just for that, Regulus considers opening his other eye to complete the look. He doesn't though - too tired to bother. It's like he's underwater, body submerged and oxygen running low, maybe Barty is his bubble-head charm. Coiling, soft and steady, around him as they plunge deeper into the depths of the ocean. 

Barty won't let him drown.

"Not even letting me share my fantastic jokes, what a cruel man." But he's squeezing Regulus' shoulders and his palms are warm, so he must be joking. He must be. Something must show in Regulus' eye before he slides it shut, because Barty shifts. Twisting so Regulus' head is settled back into the crook of his neck, just below his jaw, with his legs unceremoniously strewn across the long seat. It's almost like an apology - but Barty hasn't done anything wrong. Barty never does anything wrong. It's always Regulus.

It's always Regulus.

"Do you mind if I read?" Barty asks, and Regulus feels his head move as ripples pass down Barty's throat. His free hand, laid limp in his own lap, flexes. Almost curling into a fist, before he forces it to relax with energy he didn't know he had. Slowly, painfully, he manages a nod. Feeling Barty's jaw shift against his brow when the man smiles.

He's jostled a bit, when Barty reaches for one of the overhanging shelves, but doesn't open his eyes. He knows, somehow, exactly which book Barty is reaching for. Unsurprised when the scent of old book hits his nose, making it wrinkle up a little, and Barty's soft baritone fills the air between them.

"There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for -"

(He isn't okay - mind still addled by the moon and coated in a clinging fog that leaves him scrabbling onto the few stray thoughts that he manages to hold onto. He can still do little more than raise a hand and he doubts he'll be able to speak for hours to come. But somehow - here, in Barty's arms in his own house and in his stained skin - Regulus thinks he might just be okay. It's like Remus like to say, sometimes, with his calm voice and his knowing eyes.

One day at a time.

Even if the pesky moon does seem to have it out for him.)

**Author's Note:**

> And they lived happily ever after. Promise.
> 
> Any kudos or comments are valued and appreciated very much.


End file.
